


Severe

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captivity, Gen, Suspension, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 18:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Hal is given the responsibility of punishing Hotspur.





	Severe

After the Battle of Shrewsbury, many found Prince Hal to be a changed man. Well, not completely. He still frequented the Boar’s-Head Tavern on occasion, and he still joked around with his old friends. But he attended court as well, at least somewhat regularly. His feud with his father seemed to have largely ended. And even when he was at the Boar’s-Head, he sometimes seemed to be only half there, with distant eyes and a solemn demeanor.

On one such night, he told Ned and Falstaff that the next day he would have to absent himself from their company, to his regret. In fact, he said, duty might take him from their company for some time longer, depening. He didn’t say depending on what.

“Court again? You’re becoming quite the courtier, but don’t let it take you from us every day.”

“No, not court. My father has requested that I see to disciplining that rebel dog Harry Hotspur.”

Although he scoffed at the name, it seemed to Ned that he was uneasy. He tried to lighten the mood. “That’s a jailer’s job, not one for a prince.”

“Well, I’m caught,” Hal said. He didn’t try to argue it one way or another. “I’m afraid I’ll be in no mood to visit you in the evenings for some time. But keep me in your thoughts.”

He left then, without what one could call a proper goodbye. Falstaff glanced at Ned. “Well, good riddance to him. The way he acts lately… Not that I don’t still love him, as my own flesh! But he has lost all sense of humor.”

“Battle’s sobered him. But he’ll be back to normal soon enough. Ah, but he owes me a few rounds of ale—I’ve paid for him the past few nights, though I’d swear he hasn’t even noticed. Maybe he just wants to avoid paying me back.”

“Likely enough! Well, he can’t avoid us forever. We’ll see if he’s back by the end of the week. He’ll never let duty be too harsh a mistress, you can be sure.”

And so, though the inn chattered, no one was too worried about Hal. But Hal himself, who had left earlier than he was accustomed, was having something of a hard night.

His father had said, “It will be a hard task.”

“As is war.”

“Do not act like it does not shake you. But these are the means we use of maintaining peace in the realm. People must know they cannot be Harry Percy without consequences. Percy must know, too. You will be king someday. You must understand what ruling means.”

“You are right, father. I will accept your judgment.”

He had defeated Hotspur honestly in battle, won power, responsibility over his fate as well as anybody. Now he would have to see the matter through.

* * *

 

 Hotspur had been in prison for weeks. In the Tower. Everyone knew that was where people got sent when the king wanted them to vanish. People in the Tower ended one way or another: they either died quickly like the late Richard or they were left to rot. Hotspur wasn’t sure which he was. He’d thought at first the king would want him executed soon, and publicly—it was the sensible thing to do. He’d made himself Henry Bolingbrook’s enemy, and everyone knew how Bolingbrook treated his enemies. But now it had been some time, and he was still alive. So maybe the king still hadn’t defeated all of Hotspur’s allies, or maybe he wanted to use Hotspur against his father. There were possibilities. Hard to say what was going on outside the Tower, when the guards only ever brought him mockery, never any news.

There was a part of Hotspur that whispered, “They’ve all forgotten you exist.”

He laughed at that part of him. Laughed at it. How could anyone forget him? He had brought the country into civil war—admittedly not with as great an army as he had expected, but enough to set a fire under Bolingbrook’s throne. And before that he had been a hero, fighting against Glendower and before that against Richard. He was well known at court. Not loved exactly, but known. They couldn’t have just forgotten him.

He told himself Bolingbrook must have forbidden anyone to visit him.

Then, on the other hand, Bolingbrook might not have had to bother. Visiting Hotspur would put a man under suspicion of treason; at the least, it would hardly make anyone look good. Most of the people at court were cowards. They hadn’t been willing to join Hotspur in the fight against Bolingbrook, so why would they defy Bolingbrook now?

Cowards. Hotspur was as well rid of them.

But they couldn’t have forgotten he existed.

And the proof of that arrived one afternoon when Harry Monmouth, Prince Hal himself, showed up at the door of his cell.

Hotspur rose. He was wounded, but it had been some weeks and so he was healed enough to move more or less freely. He wouldn’t take the presence of an enemy sitting down. (It wasn’t that he was showing respect towards a future king or a victor, he told himself. After all, he didn’t bow.) He said, “Come to gloat at the man you defeated?”

“If I wanted to do that,” Hal said, “I would have come sooner. But I do not take pride in my victory over you, Percy. That was a matter of duty towards the throne.”

It was like a slap in the face. Hal had stolen all of Hotspur’s honors, all of his victories, in one brief duel. To Hotspur, it had been the fight of his life. He’d been fighting enemies all day, but none had challenged him like Hal. Spoiled prince Hal, craven drunkard Hal. The whole kingdom laughed at him. Hotspur had intended to put him down quickly, slay the man whose princeship disgraced the country. But it had not been easy. Slowly he’d realized first that he could not kill Hal offhand, then that Hal was as good a swordsman as he was, then, with a dawning of dread, that Hal was even better, and that he was getting tired.

He could have died easily from the wound Hal had inflicted on him. Part of him wished he had. Living to see Hal look at him like this, placidly and without even any smugness, was worse.

 “What are you here for, then? Come to tell me my execution date? By God, they’ve sent a pretty messenger! Perhaps they think your face will comfort me at the prospect.”

Hal said, “You are not to be executed.” He stepped closer to the door’s barred window. “You don’t fear death, Percy. After the dishonor you suffered, you’d welcome it. Your punishment must be more severe.”

He turned and gestured to a man behind him, the jailer. The door was opened, and a couple guards came in and grabbed Hotspur’s arms. Their grip was rough. He resisted on instinct, making them drag him out of the room. In front of him, Hal looked on, face cold and still.

“Where are you taking me? You devils!”

“We must go down a ways,” Hal said, as if he knew that Hotspur had to be addressing him even if he spoke to the guards. “That’s where the torture chamber is.”

* * *

 

He fought all the way down, but it was no good. The guards dragged him onwards. Their grip would probably leave bruises—it hurt—and he found himself breathlessly laughing at the notion. He had more than bruises to worry about now. Hal’s footsteps sounded in front, constant and steady as a heartbeat. Hotspur cursed him with every word he could think of and nothing made him even turn his head.

The torture chamber was not ornate, but it was well furnished. There was a wide variety of tools hung on the far wall: whips and rods, maces and knives, other implements Hotspur had never seen before because frankly they weren’t the kind of thing a nobleman, or any kind of honest man, had to think about. There were a couple chairs, a table. And there was the rack.

“We mostly use this room to get answers,” Hal said. “To make people admit to treason, for example. Of course, that isn’t necessary in your case.”

He had stepped over to the wall and was examining some of the stranger implements with a small smile. “Tell me, do you know how many of your comrades betrayed you?”

“Fuck you, you whoreson monkey, you piece of—”

“Do you know how many people came to my father, bearing with them letters of treacherous intent? Or how easily we found out your numbers, your plans? Your friends, your countrymen—they were fast to betray you because they knew you would lose. No one wanted to be there for the fall out. Most of your confederates are already dead in battle. Now you will wish you were dead.”

He nodded to the guards. “Put him in the manacles.”

Hotspur had not seen the manacles; he had been too focused on the menacing wall in front of him. The manacles were above. They hung from a hook, two neat iron cuffs. They were high above Hotspur’s head. Two guards lifted him up, and a third with a stool clicked the cuffs shut and locked them. When the guards released him, he was hanging with his feet off the ground. The position strained at his arms, chafed his wrists, and made him stretch his toes, trying to touch the ground—but he couldn’t manage it.

Hal observed him quietly, as if waiting for him to adjust himself. As if Hotspur could find some position in which he could be comfortable. Eventually he spoke. “Normally we’d ask for information at this point. But your actions have spoken for themselves. We don’t have to ask if you are a traitor. Perhaps you might expound upon your motivations. Why would you be so stupid as to fight a king you could never win against?”

At the time, Hotspur had told his motivations to anyone who would listen. The disgrace of the king refusing to ransom Mortimer, even though Mortimer had done well enough for himself and even ended up marrying Glendower’s daughter. He thought Hal would shake his head at that answer, see Hotspur’s futile loyalty as pitiful. Then there was the glory of it all. Bolingbrook had defeated Richard II, a corrupt king, and was honored for it, loved by all the people. Hotspur had thought he could do the same thing.

Hal would probably laugh at that.

He did have one answer left to give. “Because Henry Bolingbrook is a corrupt king, who cares more about his own power than honor, and he deserves to have someone kick him off his thrice damned throne, which he has drenched in blood.”

“So you thought you’d drench it in more blood?”

“Fuck you. I would have been an honorable king—or at least better than him.”

Hal shrugged.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Hotspur kind of wished he would—at least Hal’s superior voice was distracting, and he could use distraction. His wrists were on fire. He tried to twist his hands so that they could grip at the cuffs and he could somehow pull himself up a bit, ease some of the tension, but he couldn’t find a good position.

There was other pain to distract from his wrists, of course. It hurt his arms, too, all the way down through his shoulders. But when he focused on one ache, it became unbearable, and he’d have to skip to another one.

He cursed Hal, told him what he could have, should have done to him and his family and his whole damn court. He cursed every member of Hal’s lineage back as far as he could remember. He asked Hal who he was to judge him or punish him, who he was to defeat him in the first place—everyone knew Hal was morally corrupt, if in different ways than his father. That he spent all his time in taverns and alleyways, carousing with the dregs of the city, that he had no sense of duty, honor, respect. Hotspur hated him. He wished he could have been defeated by a better nemesis—Hal was unworthy.

Hal sometimes responded and sometimes didn’t. In fact, a couple times he left the room, though the guards remained, not that Hotspur could have escaped the manacles anyhow, not when he couldn’t even get his hands around the rims. When he was gone, Hotspur cursed the guards and barely processed their answers and waited for Hal to return. He hated Hal but at least Hal was something to focus on.

If he could fight Hal, even with words or with his own endurance, this was a battle. If he couldn’t, it was just torture. It became meaningless. And his endurance became not a virtue, but a mere fact of his existence: what else could he do but endure? It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

Hal was there when he was at last taken down from the manacles and brought back to his cell. The guards half dragged him—he could barely walk. It had been hours, he thought—he wasn’t sure just how long. There was a window in his cell, though, and outside he could see that the sun was setting.

“We will see you again tomorrow,” Hal said, and he was gone before Hotspur could get himself together enough to respond.

More of that tomorrow, then? Or something else? Hotspur’s arms and wrists burned. Even lying down he couldn’t get comfortable enough to erase the ache in them.

But that meant Hal would return too, didn’t it? He still thought it strange that a crown prince would play torturer. Maybe Hal had a hidden sadistic side that no one knew about; or maybe Hotspur didn’t listen closely enough to the rumors surrounding him. But he hadn’t acted much like a sadist. Too cold.

But he would be back tomorrow. Hotspur’s body shuddered at the thought of going back in the manacles, or whatever else might await him. But there was still that small part of his mind that gleefully said, “So they haven’t forgotten me after all.”

* * *

 

Hal was tired.

He’d been right to think he wouldn’t be in the mood to go down to the tavern. He did pay a quick visit to his father, and report that he’d done his duty for the day. His father didn’t ask for details.

He thought it might be easier to use the manacles than any of the other tools. The manacles were passive—all you really had to do was sit back and watch. It hadn’t really been any easier, because for them to be really effective, you had to make the torture last for hours. So he’d spent hours watching Hotspur curse and gasp and squirm, unable to do anything except occasionally respond. Certainly unable to show any sympathy.

He shouldn’t have any sympathy for Hotspur, who was an enemy of the realm. But he couldn’t help but like the man, somehow. He had a sense of honor, at least. And he had a lot of skill in crafting insults, once he got going—Hal liked a man with a quick and fiery tongue, it was one reason he hung around Falstaff.

If Hotspur had died, Hal would have mourned him and regretted the necessity. But Hotspur was alive, so Hal had to hate him, and pretend to be unmoved by his pain.

Tomorrow he’d choose another method. Something easier, or at least quicker. Whipping, maybe. That was easy enough. Hal had seen many men whipped in his day, though he’d never had to do the deed himself. He could make one of the guards do it, maybe, but it wouldn’t make any difference—either way, it was his responsibility.

This, his father had said, was what it meant to be king. Hal intended to learn as well as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for a prompt of : “You don’t fear death, you welcome it. Your punishment must be more severe." With the specification of a Hal and Hotspur fanfic and torture in a dungeon.  
> I don't think writing torture is actually my forte, but manacles were a torture method apparently used in the Tower of London, and I tried my best.  
> Comments are always welcome :)


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